


The Suffering Sea of Red and Reed

by SandrC



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, fixed the tags because i am dumb, what if theo died in episode 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:47:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24823342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: Theobald takes his final stand in Dulcington.He will hold with all of his might the armies of night,Still as boulders laid to the side 'til we pass byHe has hoisted out of the mire every childSo lift your voice with timbrel and lyre"We will abide, we will abide, we will abide"
Relationships: Theobald Gumbar & Jet Rocks, Theobald Gumbar & Lazuli Rocks, Theobald Gumbar & Ruby Rocks
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40





	The Suffering Sea of Red and Reed

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this.Then it hit 700 words. Then 1200. Then 2000. And I started crying.
> 
> I've been on a kick lately with my music choices and holy fuck do I have the Oh Hellos on the brain haha.
> 
> If Theo died, it would be in this manner, he would be happy with that death, and so would I — even if I would miss him.
> 
> (I really wanted this done before the new ep haha. And I did. Yay me.)

The pounding of his heart is only beaten out by the sound of their feet on the brittle brick roads of Dulcington. With King Amethar carrying Jet—the last time he had seen her, he had vouched to the Queen for her prowess in battle and yet here he is and _she_ _is **and**_ —and Ruby injured and Queen Caramelinda unfit for battle in the same way that he or Liam or Cumulous—left behind, but the monk is strange enough and tied to Lazuli in a way that he will most likely catch back up again with no effort—it's already a long shot that they'll make it to the docks before someone finds them. _Even less_ that they'll be able to rouse a ship's worth of sailors fast enough to not accrue heavy losses.

It's a game of numbers again. Like the Ravening War before it, he is strategizing and theorizing and thinking one, two, _seven_ steps ahead in a way that he has never really forgotten. He just hoped he'd never have to use this part of his brain after the War ended.

As King Amethar liked to say: _shit in one hand, wish in the other, at the end of the day you'll have a hand full of shit._

Numbers, _as always_ , calculations. How many hits can Liam take? How many more blows can Ruby avoid before she, too, meets her sister's fate? How much more strain can King Amethar's body handle? How much more can they run? Who can they trust?

Lacramore. The Lacrans under Primsy's flag. House Cheddar and what might remain of House Bleu. Annabelle and her crew. Manta Ray Jack and Sir Morris Brie. Maybe Ser Amanda Malliard, _loathe_ as he would be to admit it. Probably Duke Joren and his family—though he wouldn't trust Liam's brothers around King Amethar if only for their open hatred of him by way of the late King Jadian—the Duke Jawbreaker himself _should_ be well enough having known King Amethar personally.

It's a small list but it's _something_. Perhaps Liam's purported many parents and their partners have allies that Candia can rely on.

But first: _escape_.

Dulcington isn't a large town, all things considered, but one he knows intimately. He's patrolled these roads before and knows how many paces it takes from the road from the castle to the docks. How long it takes a guard to cross the width two-abreast. What streets are usable for chariots two horses wide. What back alleys are set up in ways for ragamuffins and vagabonds to scamper about.

What thoroughfare is best for bottlenecking an invading army.

With Cumulous fast approaching—fleet of foot, darting across rooftops like a pink and blue blur, one hand holding a chunk of his side together—and the docks in view, Theo casts his hand out and Messages Manta Ray Jack. _**We need to go immediately.**_

The shock and confusion rolling through his head is followed by a sharp and certain, _**Roger.**_ Then the bells on the ship ring out, loud and clear. Theo's ears pin back against his head.

_Everyone_ in Dulcington must be awake now. Every Ceresian and Vegetanian soldier _has_ to be aware of their position. They've been made and they still have to run.

Fuck. _Fuck. Fuck. **Fuck.**_

The sound of armored feet on chipping brittle crescendos. They're no longer trying to be stealthy—though the assistance from Liam's cold, _angry_ magic stifles their steps—speed being their priority. And speed is _not_ Theo's strongest point.

(Once, during a happier time when Theo was being shown every secret passageway in all of Castle Candy—"In the _off_ chance you need to use them to escape, find mischievous royals, or stop sneakthieves from breaking in."—Princess Sapphira called him "an inside boy". Incredulous, he denied the fact but she backed her argument up with a coy smile and a wink. "Sir Theobald," Princess Sapphira had said, "for _all_ your armor and martial prowess, you are _far_ more suited for patrolling halls than you are running through fields." Never-you-mind he was older than her by a wide margin; she just teased him gently and wandered off with a grin. He never told her he was inclined to agree.)

Now, sweating through the quilted padding under his full plate armor, Theo can hear a veritable army bearing down on them and he makes a choice.

" _Go!_ " He shouts and turns, plate making a ruckus, as he dead sprints toward one of the offshoot roads leading from the castle to the docks. He hears Ruby behind him let out a shriek that is cut off by her covering her mouth.

He silently says an apology to her and Liam but this will help them survive. They _have_ to understand this. They _have_ to know that _his_ life isn't worth _theirs_. They _have_ to realize that _this is his job_. He's here to _protect_.

He finds a path that has a place for him to hunker down and purposefully swings his sword into a metal pole, the noise ringing out into the early morning. " _ **Come and get me** you Bulbian bastards!_" He howls into the dark of the night. " _I defy you **and** your god! If it had **any** power, it would strike me down where I stand but the fact that I am still alive and you traitors **struggle** to even injure me is proof **it** is as worthless as **you**!"_

The memory of Saint Citrina, warm and smiling, and her Book of Leaves being used to wring the horrible truth about Catherine Ghee out of King Amethar by the Pontifex Brassica and her corrupt clergy are conflicting shades thrown across his view of the Bulb. So he opts for blasphemy, considers what Cumulous said about the Bulb and the Hungry One being sources of power and not much more than that, and waits.

Heretics _cannot_ be allowed to live, it seems. _Especially_ ones with ties to the royal family during a coup. The approaching army is loud and obvious. _They_ have _no need_ for stealth as they occupy Theo's home. _They_ have the upper hand.

Behind him, by the docks, he can hear a ship being pushed into the river, ropes straining. He can hear cries of scared children forced to participate in a war just because of how close they are to the center of it all. He can hear, in the back of his head, clear as day, a Message.

**_Please_ don't go.**

**Princess** , he Messages back, **I was tasked with keeping you safe. _Please_ allow me to do my job.**

He thinks he can hear her scream his name through the wind. If he gets another Message, it barely registers.

Ceresian halberds clash against Swirlwarden as he dances to the pipes of war. The blood in his ears dampens any other noise, graceless feet pirouetting as he twists to block and attack in equal measure, Battlepop glowing bright green with fire and purple with kinetic energy. One, five, _ten_ soldiers. He loses count to the number he fells and the number that replace them. It's like counting grains of sand. There's no point in keeping track.

He forces himself to hope. The royal family will get away. They'll make their way to the Stone Candy Mountains and mourn Jet and the wounds will scab over but not heal because that takes peacetime. The children will find solace in their company, sad as that might be, and they will support each other. The Queen will help plot and plan, her mind better suited for analytics away from the tides than the King's own ability to plan in the thick of it. They'll find their allies, gather forces, and muster a counterattack. _They'll find a way to win._

His one man stand isn't meant to be a _win_. It's meant to _stall_. To buy them time.

_It works._

By the time a chance blow catches his head, stunning him into seeing stars, he can see the ship they got on rowing up the river, out of crossbow reach. He lets a soft smile of satisfaction bubble up, manic laughter chasing it.

Is _this_ what Lazuli felt when she knew what had to be done? Is _this_ how it feels to know you're making a decision that will hurt others but is best overall? The elation masks pain, the blood running down his muzzle the only indicator he has of the amount of damage he's taken. His senses are dulled to the actual pain of the injuries. He roars like the animal they think he is—Toby, slaughtered in a room they expect him to sit in like a good guard dog—and cuts down soldier after soldier. His arm aches. He wheezes.

A bolt of Vegetanian celery slips in a hinge in his armor and he halts, his body no longer answering. _Oh_ , he thinks softly, _this is **it** then._ Another blow catches the exposed part of his wrist and he drops Battlepop. Then he feels a warmth trickle into his armor, puddling in his graves. He feels his life fill his shoes.

When his knees hit the ground, forcing him prone before a cocky soldier, he wheezes. Tacky blood drips from between his teeth. He considers putting aside decorum to just tear the throat out of the next person to come close to him. He doesn't though; _not_ because of some moral high ground he's upholding, but because he can't lift his head.

"Is _this_ the best Candia has to offer? A knight and his heretical magic, taught to him by the witch sister of the _fallen_ king?" He hears someone say, behind the ringing in his ears. He wants to snap at them, vocally defend his King, his crown, Lazuli, but his voice is going the same way his sight and life is. And _then_ , a sharp clarity. A strike of red and white.

A blade across his throat.

As his hearing clears, eyes spotted white and purple and an _impossible_ stygian blue, he feels a small body slam into his back, wrapping their arms around his neck. He stiffens, ears flicking back to try and figure out this assailant but the choked sob is all he needs.

" _Oh_ ," he says, soft, the first words he can speak, "Princess, I am _so_ sorry."

" _Stupid_ ," Jet—Bastard, Princess, dead, ghost, _his_ fault to some degree because the Queen had ordered him to keep them safe, _hadn't she?_ —mumbles into his neck and he feels warmth there. "Told _me_ not to throw myself into battle to die, told _pops_ the same, go and do it _yourself_."

"I _had_ to buy them time." An excuse, leaden, but she sobs laughing against him. He can't help but feel relieved she's there, even under the circumstances. He stands, turns to face her, and stops, Jet's small hand gripping his paw, silent and reassuring.

Behind Jet is _Lazuli_. And behind _her_ , the rest of the fallen Rocks sisters.

" _Oh...,"_ he says, breathless, _pained_. Is he _allowed_ to be happy to see her? Is he _allowed_ this small relief in death? Or is it betraying his King and Queen—alive and struggling to live against all odds—to be pleased to be dead, _if only_ to reconnect with those who have passed.

"Hello Theo," she says and his breath catches in his chest—he logically knows he doesn't _need_ to breathe but try and tell his racing heart to stop or his lungs catching on this feeling swelling in his ribs—and he tears up.

"Archmage Lazuli," he manages. Jet sidesteps around him so he can be closer to Lazuli and smiles shyly up at him—when has Jet ever done _anything_ shyly? But for him, she is demure and quiet and is it death that has tempered her nature?—squeezing his paw. She's reassuring him. Reminding him it's okay.

_When did you become so **wise?**_ He thinks, fond, squeezing her hand back. _Was it the death of Lapin? The fight aboard **the Colby**? The realization that the world is **not** as kind as home and that home is **not** as kind as you think? Or was it **your own death** , bleeding out in a lingerie shop, begging **whatever** you might believe in that your sister and Liam survive, **even if you don't?**_

_Does death make us **wiser?** Or does it give us perspective to look back on our life with clarity?_

"I'm sorry to see you here so soon," she nods her head, smiling. She's _exactly_ how he remembers her. Tall, her back straight and hands folded in front of her in a way that she told him "draws their attention away from me, because I am unarmed and therefore not dangerous". Her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, glinting gently, and her smile far softer than he last saw. For a moment, he sees her statue instead of her—stern and taciturn, the Archmage, the Far-Seer, book in her hand as she frowns out at the future she sees—but that fades and she is _here_.

_Dead_ , true, but _here_.

"I'm sorry I couldn't do _more_."

"Don't _apologize_ ," she admonishes. "I told you to think for yourself and _you did_. I couldn't be _more_ proud. You've been a _wonderful_ pupil and an _even better_ Lord Commander."

It's not something he _expected_ to hear but it feels like he _needed_ it. A soft choked noise escapes his mouth and Jet squeezes his hand again. Sparing her a glance, she nods.

"It's _okay_ ," Jet says. _You can cry_ , she doesn't say. She doesn't _need_ to, though. The weight of everything takes his knees out from under him and he sobs into her shoulder as she hugs him, both her arms wrapped around his body, making soothing noises.

As the grief— _is_ it grief? Grieving for your own death, for the life you would never live or the people you have left behind? Or is it the tidal wave of trauma and panic of war catching up with him again—steals his words, he cries with every ounce of him. It presses him into the ground and he mourns for everything he didn't have time to mourn until his body, shivering and limp, is empty. He has nothing left to give. Jet peels from him and rocks back on her heels expectantly.

"My apologies," he says as he ducks his head and stands up again, his muscles protesting the action—though, again, the logical part of him says that he's dead and shouldn't be stiff like that, it seems the body doesn't forget—with a soft huffing groan. "I haven't had time _to_...since.. _.you know_." It's a lame apology, sure, but it's the best he can do and still be honest.

"Don't stress," Jet grins and, _oh_ , he didn't think he would have _missed_ that smile but he does. For all it meant danger to him and any who would have been watching after the princesses, it also meant she was okay. Not _happy_ , maybe, but _okay_. "But _what_ a _way_ to _go_."

"I was thinking about you. What _you_ would have done." A somber statement but not an untrue one. Her smile lessens slightly and she cocks her head. A series of emotions flickers across her face, her hand pressing into her stomach, barely a movement but Theo knows her. Knows her tics and her tells. He had protected her, once. Been her teacher.

She worries at the edge of her sleeve behind her back. She's uncomfortable.

"Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, _isn't_ _it_?" Her grin back full force, she swivels on her toes like a dancer, gesturing back to Lazuli. Behind Lazuli, the other Rocks Sisters watch, quiet. General Rococoa, warm and proud, her chest forward and her hand on the pommel of an old blade. Princess Sapphira, so like the twins, grinning brightly with her arms folded across each other. Saint Citrina, warm and radiant even in this place after life, head tilted in that way that means she's observing you and your every move.

Jet gets his attention again by clapping her hands in a way he recognizes Lapin did to get their attention in lessons. _Imitation indeed._ " _C'mon_ Theo! We have jobs to do! Death won't stop _me_ from protecting my family, why should it stop _you_?"

He looks at her. At _them_. Back to where his body had knelt on the ground, fallen in battle.

He thinks about Lazuli, felled by her own spell on purpose, for the sake of everyone else. He thinks about Princess Sapphira, clever and kind and quick of wit, found too late. He thinks about General Rococa, riddled with arrows well within friendly borders, an heir fallen. He thinks about Saint Citrina, run down and slaughtered by Vegetanian knights in the middle of the road.

He thinks about Jet, water blades working their way though her system in a _lingerie shop_ of all places.

He thinks about King Amethar carrying her body. About Queen Caramelinda's terrified face. About the sobs that wracked Liam's frame. About the fury in Ruby's face.

He turns to them, shoulders squared.

"Show me what to do, my Princesses."

And he follows echoing laughter and cries of dismay at his formality well into that good night, ready to continue his work as best he can.


End file.
